


He finds it hard to sleep these days.

by philc (enterpri5e)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Gen, Introspection, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Phil Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enterpri5e/pseuds/philc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soaring thousands of feet above the ground should excite him. Instead, stagnancy is the word he kisses goodnight and greets in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He finds it hard to sleep these days.

He finds it hard to sleep these days.

Actually, he thinks, as he swirls his glass, he’s forgotten how to sleep. Most of his nights consist of him staring into the bottom of a beer, swirling the bubbling liquid around and around, dazed by the movement of the world and the drink and not of his own life. Soaring thousands of feet above the ground should excite him. Instead, stagnancy is the word he kisses goodnight and greets in the morning. He’s not a zombie. His body is warm. He feels.

He downs the shot. Immediately his eyes scrunch up when the vile liquid cuts through him. He didn’t use to be warm.

Eight seconds, forty seconds – he was cold for longer than that.

Climbing into bed is a sickly experience. He knows he won’t sleep. He knows that he’ll wake up shaking and crying, just like he is now, because some things can’t be helped. Some things are better left alone. He’s better left under the duvet for days, ignoring his team and responsibilities, but he knows that his illnesses are somewhat less important than his friends.

The lights snap out. He is drowned in darkness. The sobs die down to sniffles, followed by a silence; a tired, weary silence, if not peaceful.

Two hours later the lights flick back on.

Screams rip from his throat. He can’t feel anything except for the blood pooling down his shirt, on to his hands, while he shakes and gasps and yells for help, nonetheless knowing he’ll be denied it, because when he looks down his vision is blurred with tears though he can just make out the arch of a golden staff harrowing out of his chest –

Loki’s shadow merges with his. Coulson tries not to breathe too hard or the pain in his chest will threaten to kill him before the actual wound does. Every night he tells Loki he is going to lose. He is. Coulson knows this, even though he’s slumped against a wall and nearing death, because he’s one of the good guys. Loki is not. That is enough to prove his point.

“You lack conviction.”

He was hoping those would be his final words. Short, sweet and simple. Much like his life, he thinks.

And then Loki goes flying into the wall opposite, crashing and sending the foundation tumbling down. Breathlessly, Coulson mutters, “So that’s what it does.” His finger falls away, limp, from the trigger of the launcher that perches on his lap, as he sits waiting for his time to come.

It hurts. It hurts so badly.

Stop the pain, he is crying. Let me die, please let me die-

Waking up is difficult. He’d never really learned how to wake up from his episodes, because he’s never really asked anyone. Why ask, when you can suffer in silence?

Now he sits against his bed rest, panting and sweating. His shirt and bed are soaked with sweat and tears. He disentangles himself from the covers. The clock says 02:19. His mind says sleep.

Sleep is not an option at this point. He’s gone so far off the edge he can’t see the light, let alone feel it. Coulson imagines himself looking up to Loki again. The thought sends him reeling; he grabs the edge of the sofa to stop himself falling. Embarrassment surges through him along with a tidal wave of emotions he doesn’t understand.

Stop feeling.

He scrunches up his face again. His eyes start stinging from hot tears but he is covered in cold sweat. A stutter escapes his lips, then a shaky breath. For a moment, he leans against the sofa. He drags a hand across his eyes. It’s okay, he tells himself. I’m fine. I’m fine.

Do this for the team, he whispers. He chants it to himself like a mantra every night. It is the one thing that calms him down whenever he panics. So he lies on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, whispering it over and over again to himself to stop the bad thoughts from returning and claiming him once again: Do this for the team. For the team. The team.

Do this for the team.

The next morning they find him as awe-inspiring as the Coulson they only ever knew. Mild-mannered Coulson, his hair combed, outfitted in a crisp new Ports 1961 suit. The tear tracks have disappeared and so have the circles around his eyes. Nothing remains of last night. Nothing is amiss.

When they smile at him in greeting, he smiles back. The twitch in his lip is too small for them to notice.

The dreams are fictional, he knows. They don’t exist. Loki is never coming back to haunt him. He thanks the stars that the scar is fading more visibly by day.

Then, he has to ask himself, while he is suppressing an attack in the bathroom upon catching sight of the puckered, jagged scar clutching at his chest,  
why, oh why, does the pain have to feel so real?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic. Critique welcome/ :^)
> 
> edit: I wrote this when I was 14 and I'm 17 now. I'd like to orphan this fic but it's always going to be a part of me, I feel, so might as well leave it here. Thank you for reading this, if you have.


End file.
